


A King In His Castle

by Saladscream



Series: The Ice King [10]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blindfolds, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9336602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saladscream/pseuds/Saladscream
Summary: Jack discovers the importance of location, location, location.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to Pepe for the brilliant, lightning beta. You are wonderful, my friend. ::kiss-kiss::
> 
> Any remaining mistake is mine, btw.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, folks. :)

I’m fed up with this hotel. 

Really. 

I’ve just about had it with this stupid place, and I don’t understand what’s so special about it that Daniel can’t seem to do without it. There are nicer hotels. Not many, granted. But there are. I’ve tried some of them with clients. Hell, let’s be honest, I’ve tried all of them. They’re all as luxurious, as elegant, and probably even more pretentious than this one. And they’re barely a 5-minute walk from here, too.

I wish I knew what makes him keep coming back to this place.

It’s not that I have anything against it per se, mind you. Other than the fact that every member of staff and their fucking dogs probably know I’m doing one of their most notable guests with alarming regularity. It’s just that… well, I don’t like routine. It makes me antsy. A leftover from the military, I suppose, where routine usually spells disaster.

I also seem to have developed a disturbing kind of pavlovian reflex regarding this place. Every time I walk into this lobby, every time I smell the elaborately inconspicuous yet unmistakable signature scent of this place, I get harder than is strictly appropriate – or discreet. Nothing too obvious, of course, but my jeans do tend to get too tight for comfort. No matter how fervently I try to think of unappealing things, my dick knows what it’s ultimately here to do. _Who_ it’s ultimately here to do. 

The person at the front desk usually pretends it’s all perfectly acceptable, of course.

Today I have to wait in the lounge area for some reason, and I’m kind of worried my condition will evolve to the point where even the best trained receptionist will find it difficult to ignore the state of arousal this lovely establishment seems to induce in me.

So I try to think of something else. Tip my head back and look at the subtle decorations – baubles, swirls and snowflakes in gold, silver and rosé tones that somehow blend in with the colour scheme and say Christmas without being too obvious about it. Very politically correct.

They’ve given me a coffee and a couple of sophisticated magazines to keep me company. Whoop dee doo.

I shift in my seat, wriggling my butt in the plush upholstery – the best I can do without actually adjusting myself. If this goes on any longer, people will think I’ve a fetish for… what is this thing? ‘Archaeology’? Are you fucking kidding me?!

Ok, now I get why he likes it here. 

The freaking lunatic.

Fuck buddies don’t go to hotels. Fuck buddies don’t rent rooms. Fuck buddies are stealthier than that. They do it on their home turf: they hide it behind their buddiness and fuck in the privacy of their own home. And if they do want to go to hotels, they go somewhere like Vegas and use a poker tournament as a smokescreen. It’s called hiding in plain sight.

And right now, I’m anything but stealthy or hiding. I stick out like a… like a hard dick in a five-star hotel lobby.

As is validated by the concierge now approaching me with easy, professional coolness. 

We go back, the concierge and I. We have never been formally introduced but he knows his job and therefore knows my job – or my former job. We appraised each other a long time ago and decided we didn’t pose a threat to anyone involved. I even suspect him of having slipped my business card to a few of his guests in the past. He’s always had an eye on me, though, and I’ve always made sure to acknowledge his savvy professionalism. 

It’s an alpha-male thing. 

“Mr O’Neill?” he asks, with a lilt of foreign accent. “I am Jean-Michel Thuilliez, the Concierge of this establishment. I apologize for the wait. Has everything been to your convenience?”

“Hi. Yes, thank you. The reading material has been… edifying.” I give him my suave smile #1. The one that usually gets me cookies. “Is there a problem?”

“None at all, sir,” he assures me affably. “The screening procedure simply takes a little longer for Black passes. Would you be so kind as to follow me, please? I will show you the way,” he says, his extended hand showing the way to the arcane, magical wonders that are the elevators. 

Right. Black pass. What sort of mess has his highness gotten me into, now?

We enter the elevator together. The doors swish closed and I see him slide his pass into the control panel, type in a code and hit the penthouse button.

Okay, I think I need to have a serious talk with Daniel. Fuck buddies do not splurge on penthouse suites.

“Here is your card, sir, and your PIN code,” the Frenchman says, handing me a small, neat envelope. 

I check its contents – a black key card and a slip of paper – and try not to look at a complete loss with it. There’s something I’m missing here, and I’m not a big fan of that.

Good news is that all the cloak and dagger mystery has spooked my erection. Cloud, meet the silver lining.

After a long puzzling ride, we finally reach our destination and a few hushed digital notes chime but the doors remain closed.

The concierge turns to me, an affable smile on his face.

“If you ever need anything, sir, please do not hesitate to ask for me. Jean-Michel,” he reminds me. His hazel eyes are sharp and delve into mine with a certain persistence that I don’t quite get. 

I reach a hand out that he takes without hesitation. His handshake is good: firm and honest. That’s my screening procedure – how I measure a man’s worth.

“Call me Jack,” I tell him.

His smile turns shrewd. I feel like I’ve passed some sort of final test.

The elevator doors finally open onto a hallway.

And there stands Daniel.

Hands in his pockets, all piercing eyes and looking amazingly good in his pale blue jeans and non-descript cream Henley. There’s something refreshingly relaxed about the plainness of his appearance. I like it – Daniel Jackson in his simplest apparel. 

I like it a lot.

I don’t miss the slightly tense set of his shoulders, though. 

“Hello, Jack,” he says, then licks his lips and leans aside to the look past me into the elevator. “Thank you, Jean-Michel.”

The doors slide shut behind me and I’m finally alone with him.

Alone with those ice blue eyes.

Alone with the burning need he ignites in me.

If I had it my way, if I let free rein to my instincts, I’d be slamming him up against the wall right about now. I would take him, hold him and own him and kiss him like he’s never been kissed before. Would make him whimper with the heat of it. 

Christ, the power he holds over me. The insanity of this attraction I feel for him. It can’t be real. It can’t be healthy. It can’t be love. 

It has to be dementia.

I need to get a grip on this. I grit my teeth and realize my hands are crumpling the envelope I’ve just been given. Which reminds me: someone needs to be told a thing or two about fuck buddy etiquette.

I take a second to look around at the unexpectedly odd, though refined décor of the impressive penthouse apartment. And this is only the entrance hallway. What the hell was he thinking renting this place for the night?

“Nice digs,” I offer.

He smiles a little and I feel desire coil tighter in my guts. 

“Thanks,” he says strangely, like I’ve complimented him.

Then he turns and leads the way – giving me an inspiring view of the jeans amorously clinging to his shapely ass. 

We enter an airy open space that serves as lounge area and dining room with the subtle though homely addition of a kitchen corner. The place is rather soberly decorated but with an odd assortment of unlikely stuff which somehow only serves to emphasize the stylish furniture and the stunning amount of emptiness. Modern, smooth furniture, all in beige and grey nuances with naked wood and touches of pastels. Picture windows on two sides that let in a flood of light and the most breathtaking view over Lake Michigan I’ve ever seen. 

Daniel barely acknowledges it and makes a bee-line for the bar while I get rid of my jacket and drop the envelope on it. He serves us some drinks. Hands me my glass. 

Yeah, we’re back to the early days’ routine, apparently.

I sense an edge of nervousness in the way he downs his whisky a little too quickly. I take a sip to be polite, but I think I know what’s going on. It’s like first time nerves. 

This is new for him: we’re still here to have sex but he’s not hiring me and I’m not his rented piece of dick. We’re still going to fuck but as equals now. It’s a technicality, but it is a big deal when you think about it. 

Unfortunately, it’s new for me too, to be perfectly honest. The time spent with Cameron hasn’t taught me much about these sorts of dynamics. Six years of being a sex worker against two weeks of being… a fuck buddy. I don’t even know what a ‘normal’ gay relationship is supposed to be like. So, to put it in a nutshell, I have no previous knowledge to draw upon, no tricks up my sleeve and nothing but unwise instincts where he’s concerned. 

I’m afraid I’m going to have to wing it.

I look into my drink for a second then set the glass back on the counter, all the while feeling his wary eyes on me.

He snuffs in surprise when I wrap my arms around him, and barely manages to put his glass down before I whirl him around and back him into a nearby wall. I plant a swift, token kiss on his lips and wait for him to stop blinking.

“Spill,” I order, my voice way too husky for the simple question. 

“Spill what?” he blinks in confusion.

“Spill whatever nonsense’s on your mind,” I insist, trying to sound knowing. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he lies. Badly, may I add.

Oh so that’s how you want to play, your highness? Okay, interrogating technique number 42: I kiss the crap outta him.

He moans softly into it and responds instantly to my slightly forceful tongue action. A hand sinks tentatively into my hair while the other snakes down to my ass to show appreciation. He kisses me with a slow tenderness that disarms me. It’s beautiful and achingly sweet and, damn him, I can’t be falling in love all over again. That’s not how fuck buddies are supposed to kiss. It’s all wrong. He’s got it all wrong and I’m too much of a coward to correct him.

I end the kiss before we go overboard and before I lose sight of fact that I’m actually interrogating him. Torturing the intel out of him, as it were. I nip his lips teasingly as his hand tightens at the back of my neck, impatient for more.

“Tell me or I stop,” I whisper low.

“Do you like it?” he breathes.

“Oh, I like it,” I agree, leering helplessly.

“I meant the penthouse, Jack.”

I don’t quite get the motive behind the question. Is this place special? Apart from the massively inappropriate amount of money it must have cost?

“Sure. I told you, it’s really nice. View’s amazing,” I answer truthfully, and for some reason his pale blue eyes literally drink my every word. “It’s a bit grand for our purpose, but that’s fine.” And we really need to have that conversation about the fuck buddy etiquette at some point, but I’m thinking now’s not quite the right time. “I’d do you on a pile of garbage if I had to.”

He scowls and gives me a disgusted look. 

“It’s a compliment,” I assure him.

“If you say so. Please abstain from those from now on,” he sniffs disparagingly. And I must definitely be head over heels in love with the bastard because even that little slice of condescending attitude isn’t enough to slow me down.

I resume the kissing and the mood soon turns hot and heavy. 

His hand explores adventurously down the front of my jeans, cupping and pressing my erection through the denim. He interrupts the sloppy kiss and gives me an unhealthy dose of bedroom eyes.

“I have a mission for you, Colonel,” he purrs sinfully against my mouth. “You have exactly 60 seconds to wrap those talented lips around my dick and make me come.” 

Son of a…

His smile turns wolfish when he feels my cock twitch and harden under his palm at the filthy command.

“Why just one minute?” Not that I mind this sort of handicap.

“A challenge,” he dares me. “You were a skilled escort, but I still don’t know if you’re worth anything as a fuck buddy. If everything else is on a par with your complimenting technique, we might have a problem.” And he has the gall to grin at the taunt, the little shit.

I drag him to the lounge area and throw him across a weird backless couch in one fell swoop. He lands with a yelp and a smoldering look in his ice blue eyes. 

“Challenge accepted,” I provide hoarsely as I get rid of my long-sleeved t-shirt before yanking his jeans open and freeing his nicely hard and shiny cock.

“Wait!” he stops me, planting a hand in the middle of my chest as he retrieves his cellphone from the coffee table. He fiddles with it, then shows me the stopwatch app on the screen. “Sixty seconds, Jack,” he taunts, then taps the start button, his eyes glittering with mischief.

Fuck, how did I get so lucky?

But if he expects me to gobble down his dick like a man on a mission, he’s about to be sorely disappointed.

I know that more haste, less speed, as the old saying goes.

So I lock gazes with him and take my time to stroke and draw his cock into position – standing straight at a glorious salute in its nest of dark blonde curls. Then I slowly, very slowly, bring my mouth to the tip, barely a half-inch away from his needy flesh. It twitches hungrily when I leisurely blow warm air on the sensitive skin. 

I then part my lips and watch Daniel unconsciously do the same. His eyes have lost their smugness: they’re all lustful pools of black need now. 

I open further until the luscious head of his cock is, for all intents and purposes, in my mouth, except for the noticeable absence of contact. Daniel’s captivated by the view of my tongue just poised on the brink of tasting him and I’m not sure he’s actually breathing anymore. 

And he hasn’t seen anything yet.

I make a show of bracing my arms on either side of his hips: I’m going for the bunching shoulders effect. And sure enough, there’s an uneasy gulp and Daniel’s eyes are distracted for a few seconds by the play of tightening, cording muscles. Just long enough for me to change the angle of my head and give him a three-quarters to the right that will allow him to see all he wants to see. Namely, my tongue licking his cock delicately.

The breath he was holding until now whooshes out of him in a strangled gasp, his abs and thighs trembling with the effort of keeping still. His panting is shallow as he tries to make it inconspicuous, but it soon falls in sync with the flicks of my wet tongue over his hot shaft. 

Now all I need is for him to make that one little mistake they all eventually make. The one that will make him lose track of his absurdly selfish desire to resist me. 

That’s it, sweetheart, be brave. Look into my eyes. 

And his gaze slides from my tongue laving his cock… into my best bedroom eyes. 

Target acquired.

I proceed to swirl my tongue avidly around the crown of his cock, letting my eyes roll back into my head as they drift closed.

He hisses a “fuck” of disbelief, and when I open my eyes again I see him, slack-jawed and eyes scrunched shut, fighting desperately to keep it together. Oh baby, you should know all resistance is futile.

I slowly fist the base of his shaft, close my mouth around his achingly rigid length and give a long, sloppy suck that earns me a whimpered “ahhh”. I repeat it with a little more slurping of the tongue, and that gets me a strained exhale. He’s really hanging on to it, but his hips are canted and his cock is absolutely throbbing with the need to come. I swirl my tongue around the head, then tighten my lips just under the crown, and he grits his teeth to hold back another desperate sound. And since I’m on a timer, I go for the coup de grace: all of the above, plus the humming purr.

“Nnngh-AAAHHH, sonuvabitch!” he yells as his hips leave the couch and come floods my mouth.

Target annihilated. 

I reach and tap the stop button on his cellphone.

58 seconds.

Gotcha.

“I win.” Really trying not to gloat, here.

I take the time to kiss and lick his spent cock clean before making my way slowly up his body, rucking up his damp top and relishing his scent and his heat. He’s flatteringly rumpled and out of breath. His head is tilted back and he mumbles something I don’t catch.

“Say that again?”

“Goddamn sex fiend,” he croaks wretchedly when I steal a kiss from his mouth.

“Yep,” I admit. “And I get to pick the next position, right? I mean, seeing as I won and everything.”

He chuckles tiredly, his ice blue eyes crinkling with a smile. 

“Remind me never to do that again, okay?”

“What, challenge a pro like me?”

“Yeah, that,” he pants softly. “Jesus, you’re filthy.” And he says it like a compliment so I’ll let him get away with it for now.

I nibble at his jaw for a minute while he gets his breath back, then he drags me down into an irresistible kiss, 

…that segues into another deeper kiss… 

…that merges into a third, even deeper one…

…until I’m so hard I’m getting cross-eyed with the need to take him.

A state of fact he’s considerate enough to notice. Especially since my cock is being anything but coy in my jeans.

“How do you want me?” he breathes wantonly in my ear.

Oh sweetheart, that question… 

“On top, straddling me,” I rasp. I want him riding my cock. I want him in control of my body and in control of his pleasure. I want to feel him lose himself in the sensations. I know he would love it. And God, he’d be so beautiful on top of me. Beautiful and slutty, with a bit of luck. 

I’m so wrapped up in my fantasy that I don’t realize straight away that he’s suddenly gone very quiet. When I do, I drag him up into a sitting position, and shuffle us around until we’re both facing each other, straddling the backless couch.

The pale blue gaze is studiously neutral.

He looks unconvinced, to say the least. 

“You asked me how I wanted you,” I tell him gently. “That’s how.” I hook my hands behind his knees and pull him towards me, bringing his legs over my thighs. “Let me show you,” I coax him and drag him to sit on my lap, dropping kisses on his jaw and down his neck. He comes reluctantly: he’s not actively resisting, but he also not making it easy either. 

I do eventually manage to get him where I want him – sitting on my denim-clad cock. Delicious shivers course down my spine at the sensation of his weight settling snugly on me. My arms wrap around him and he drapes his over my shoulders, and I can’t stop the purr of utter contentment from escaping my throat.

“Christ, you feel good,” I whisper into his chest.

I feel his heart pick up speed and I realize I’ve never actually said anything like that to him. I’ve thought it – many, many, _many_ times – but I’ve never told him out loud just how gorgeous I think he is. How perfect he feels in my arms.

Old habits die hard, and I’ve always steered clear of letting my clients know how they affect me – one way or the other. I’ve always tried to avoid using terms of endearment or any of the usual bedroom talk unless it was a specific request or I needed to mollify them. One of the rare exceptions to that personal rule was Daniel of course. But even where he’s concerned, apart from the errant “sweetheart” I’m occasionally weak enough to blab out, I’ve never expressed my appreciation of him in words. I may have grunted and moaned a few times, but I’ve always been careful not to betray the emotions he could so easily wring out of me. 

And the truth is I don’t know how to safely put into words my need for him and still keep my secret. How can I let him know how much I need him, how much I love what he does to me, and not let the cat out of the bag? I know I would give myself away and I just can’t risk it. No one likes a lovesick stalker, especially not one with military training. We’ve barely found this precarious compromise, so I’m not going to rock the boat now. I’m not that stupid.

I recline into the high armrest, and draw him to me. He follows willingly, but his expression is guarded, his trademark frown drawing a thoughtful chevron on his brow. I know he doesn’t like to have sex face to face. Or… well, he likes it, but…

“I’ll wear a blindfold if you want,” I offer. Fuck my issues – I’d let him tie me down and gag me, if it got me my little corner of heaven. 

“I thought you didn’t like blindfolds.” 

“Different context,” I shrug. “I’m not contracted to do anyone’s bidding anymore. I don’t have any obligation. The blindfold is _my_ choice.”

His expression upgrades from doubtful to full-on worried, verging on appalled. 

“Have you ever felt obliged to do something you didn’t want to do with me?” he frowns.

I grin, tighten my embrace and kiss him deeply. 

“Never,” I murmur low and soft when I let us up for air. “Believe me, it’s all been very, _very_ consensual.” 

He blinks, a little rosy and nicely mussed. And tongue-tied. An unusual look on him, but one that becomes him.

“So? Blindfold?” I give him my best enticing look while he slowly licks his lips and tries to regain a little composure. “Did you bring one? Or can we use something?” Can’t imagine calling my new pal Jean-Michel for that sort of errand.

He blinks some more and throws a puzzled look around the room. 

“Uh… yes,” he ventures.

Right, must remember not to scramble his beautiful brains so much next time.

“Okay, you get the blindfold, I get the lube and condoms,” I instruct with a fond pat to his compelling derriere. 

We are using rubbers. We talked about it on the phone. A rather uncomfortable, clinical conversation where sexual intercourse with our respective other partners was mentioned in more detail than I cared to hear or give, but during which it became clear we hadn’t done anything that put ourselves at risk. That being said, I want to play it safe. I know Daniel was in good hands with Dustin: the guy is a professional, knows what he’s doing. And I know Cameron was clean even if force of habit made me careful, anyway.

Still. I want to do things right. 

And that means using condoms until we get the test results in a few days.

Daniel was miffed and I suspect pouty about it, but I prevailed.

So we’re using condoms.

And a blindfold.

A shudder of trepidation races across my back at the thought. Christ, I must be out of my mind.

I retrieve our supplies and head for the bar where I down my forgotten drink. A little Dutch courage can’t hurt.

The black silk scarf is cool against my face and the last thing I see is his soft blue gaze, mutely asking me to trust him. His hands linger and caress the back of my head, then his thumbs stroke softly down my cheeks.

“Is this all right?” he asks me, his voice low and gentle.

“Yes.” 

His lips brush over mine and for an instant I forget how to breathe. Everything is so new, so foreign and unexpected when you’re deprived of your sight.

“Lie down,” he instructs quietly. 

I hesitate, then decide to keep my jeans on and leave him in charge of this. 

As I lie on my back, I hear a rustle of clothes, then a hand lands gently on my thigh.

“I guess I should tell you that I’ve never done this, Jack.” The hand flexes over my muscle: it’s warm on my thigh – really, really warm. 

“Haven’t done what?” I ask a little breathlessly.

“I’ve never… been on top like that.” The hand strokes my thigh nervously, distractingly. “I… uh, I don’t know if… uh,” He trails off and I have to piece together what he means from the unsure tone in his voice and the anxious touch of his hand.

“Care to be more specific?”

My question is met with an annoyed huff. 

“I am, as you kindly reminded me time and time again, inexperienced compared to you,” he explains dryly. “My sexual skills are going to be a letdown. Thought you should know that.”

“Hey,” I reach out and grab his restive hand. “Come here.” I pull at his wrist and encourage him to straddle me, though I’m still half-dressed. “This is not a competition, Daniel,” I gently kiss his pulse point, letting my breath dew up the tender skin. His heart beats strong and fast.

“It never is,” I hear him whisper low.

“I’m _not_ comparing you to anything or anyone. Much in the same way I hope you don’t compare me to other professionals of your acquaintance.” And we both know I’m referring to ‘Big Dick Dustin’ here.

I reach blindly for his chest then let my hands trail down to his waist, then his hips and… “Oh fucking God, you’re naked,” I croak in disbelief.

Jesus!

“Well, I heard it’s SOP when having sex.” The dripping sarcasm barely registers on my overloaded brain.

He’s naked. 

Utterly, gloriously naked, and I’m speechless with the shock of it. 

Don’t know why I thought he’d only taken his top off, but I did. The shock of smooth skin under my palms is enough to make me incoherent with lust. My hands roam over his warm bare skin, and it’s a new experience altogether. 

I can feel everything.

Everything he is, in one sweep of my hands. A whole new world I thought I knew, but that blindness is making me rediscover in a way that steals my breath.

My fingertips trace a path up his torso and I sit up to sample a taste of my newfound treasure.

“Do you have any idea how much you turn me on?” I grind out as my lips feel their way across his chest, in search of a nipple to worry at.

The only answer I get is a breathy moan.

“You want a comparison? I’ll give the one and only comparison you need to hear,” I murmur between two torturing nibbles at the pebbling nub of flesh. “No one turns me on like you do. Absolutely no one.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m about to sit on your cock,” he rasps as his hips grind into me.

I chuckle against his dusky nipple – then groan helplessly when he shifts and drags his weight over my trapped erection. “Cocktease.”

“Just promise me you’ll respect me in the morning if I’m bad at this.” There’s humor in his voice and his hand is warm against my cheek.

“I promise,” I smile. “I also promise we’ll practice tirelessly if you are bad at this,” I purr. “Every day,” I add, licking his collarbone with a thirsty tongue. “Several hours a day.” Biting his neck with hungry teeth. “Until you get it right, of course.” I reach blindly for his mouth and we foolishly sink into a deep, long kiss. He’s driving me insane and my hands are soon desperately clutching at his hips. “Get me out of my jeans,” I beg in a hoarse whisper.

His weight shifts again and leaves me, and the only reason I don’t complain at the loss is because I feel his fingers working fast to undo my jeans. He tugs and yanks at them and I lend what uncoordinated assistance I can until I’m finally naked and harder than is probably strictly recommended for a guy my age.

I hear a strange, breathy “Mmmhh” that I’m led to interpret as an appreciative sound when a sudden, hot and raspy stripe is greedily licked up my length. 

Can’t say that my high-pitched yelp does much for my suave macho image. 

Neither does my panicked string of obscene curses when he lingers wickedly at the tip.

He gives a low, sexy chuckle that goes straight to my guts. And I belatedly realize I’m laid bare and open for his scrutiny: he can read on my body the devastating effect he has on me. He can see the way my cock swells and hardens at the sound of his soft, velvet voice. How my balls draw up and tighten at the feel of his fingernails dragging over my stomach. How my chest heaves at the scent of his arousal. 

I’m undone and exposed, and we haven’t even begun yet.

But I can’t dwell on this. His hands are on me, fingers spreading over my abs, and his mouth… Jesus, his mouth… I swear to God I try to resist and hold back the moan of ecstasy as he takes me into his mouth and sucks me long and slow.

Next, he rolls the condom on my shaft with eager fingers, then slicks me with broad strokes of his hands. His thighs feel strong and intimate as they close on either side of my hips. There’s something impatient in the way he braces himself on my chest to press a quick, hot kiss on my lips. But I hook the back of his head before he can straighten up again. And that’s how it begins. With a furtive peck that my insistence turns into a slow, gentle kiss.

The ebb and flow of his tongue in my mouth soon becomes the ebb and flow of his hips on mine. It’s beautiful the way he moves against me. Magical. My hands sink into his hair, then slide over his shoulders, follow the dense swell of his biceps. My touch has become my sight, and I peruse every inch of him. His breath hitches when my palms smooth over his fl anks to eventually find the perfect resting place on his hips – my fingertips digging greedily into his flesh. 

His hand goes to my cock again and there’s even more slickness spread over me, and I suddenly realize I haven’t done much to prepare him. Can’t believe I’ve been so selfish and forgetful. But it’s too late now, because he’s already taking position and guiding me to his opening, and all I can do is hope he’s ready. 

My cock catches at his hole, then slowly breaches him. I hear him breathe through it, willing his body to comply, until abrupt heat and supreme tightness swallow me completely. 

Up to the fucking hilt in one steady, deliberate move. 

And all I can hear is his broken moan of strained pleasure. Then I can’t hear anything because my ears are ringing and my head is spinning with the intensity of it. 

Fuck. I’m never going to survive this.

So I hold on to his hips, hold on to his ass as he slowly fucks himself on me with long, deep rolls of his hips. And it’s killing me, but I keep as still and as quiet as I can. I want him to take control over me. And I want to hear him – every breathy gasp, every stifled moan, every whisper of his skin against mine. God, I want him to use me, use my body, use my cock for his own selfish pleasure. Right now, I want that more than anything else, and my only regret is that I can’t see him – but I can hear him and I can feel him. 

Christ, I can feel him…

I can feel him slow down, the once fluid moves growing more shallow and tentative, and I’m wondering if I haven’t fucked up again.

I forgot. 

Forgot he might feel self-conscious about all this. Forgot how unsure of himself he can be sometimes. How unnerving it must be to become involved with someone whose sexual skills were actually marketable.

“Don’t stop,” I rasp urgently, not knowing how else to express reassurance. “God… don’t stop.” 

“You can call me Daniel, you know,” he offers on a breathy chuckle as he resumes his sweetly obscene rhythm.

“Bastard,” I gasp as he lets me sink even deeper inside him and clenches his muscles around me. Oh yeah, he’s a quick study and I realize he knows exactly what he’s doing – knows exactly how to work me. “Fucking smartass,” I grunt accusingly as I retaliate by holding him in place and thrusting up hard into his ass.

And he laughs, the little shit. A sexy, breathless laugh that makes me harder than I thought was physically possible. His taunting is just the hottest thing imaginable. It fills my mind with hot need and my veins with hot lust. 

Oh yeah, it’s time to get serious, sweetheart: if you still have enough brain power to make jokes, then we’re not doing this right.

My grip tightens over his hips and I’m soon powering into him, arching up and driving my cock deep into his heat. And he loves it. Moans his approval as he grinds his ass onto me in time to produce the deepest, most perfect kind of fuck. 

At first, our efforts are not exactly coordinated and we gasp and whimper our frustration, but when we suddenly stumble upon it – that perfect synchronicity – we cry out at the beauty and the power of it. And once we find it and we hang on to it, and the rest is just a mad, sensual rush of pounding hips and explosions going off at every single one of our nerve-endings. Adrenaline is pumping, muscles are screaming, and we are fucking fucking fucking like there’s no tomorrow. It’s raw and animalistic, and surely it’s going to destroy us because nothing so good comes without dire consequences. 

I want him to come first so my hand leaves his hip and wraps around his cock. Barely one stroke. The effect is instant and devastating. He comes with a roar, every muscle in his ass just jamming and locking me in as his burning cock shoots ribbons of come over my chest, my abs, my hand. 

Even on my mouth… 

The indecent spurt that lands hot and thick on my lips makes my whole world disintegrate in an implosion of sparks. The wave of climax crashes on me out of nowhere and I’m yelling in wonderful agony because I wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t ready for it. I’m torn to pieces and it’s the best feeling ever. 

He’s hunched on top of me as I slowly feel my brain reconnect to my body. He’s out of breath, his inner thighs hot and damp against my hips, and there’s a strange silence that settles between us. I feel him lean forward, probably bracing himself on his knee, then his thumb brushes over my lips – wiping his come from my mouth as he whispers an amused “sorry”. 

I catch his hand before he can retreat. 

Bring his thumb to my mouth again. 

Lick his come with a slow flick of my tongue.

He murmurs my name – a disbelieving groan of lust.

Then I guide his hand to my chest where I can feel a splash of his release cooling on my skin. I drag his finger through it – and he takes it from there, bringing it to my mouth. The finger trembles as it touches my lips. 

I suck on it like it’s the most delicate of treats.

“Fuck… Jack…” I hear him growl in near remonstrance, then he kneels up, making me slip out of him. And I’m about to complain when I understand what he’s doing. Oh God, what he’s doing…

He shifts down my body, hands braced on either side of me, and starts licking his come off my chest, off my stomach, and that would be enough to blow my mind as it is, but then what he does next… He crawls back up and his hand goes to my jaw, coaxing my mouth open – then he simply pushes his come-covered tongue into my mouth and kisses me deeply. 

Fuck.

Oh fuck.

My hands clasp the back of his head and I hang on for dear life as we share the hottest, filthiest, most beautiful kiss ever. 

And God, it’s so wrong. So utterly wrong. 

Not the act: the act isn’t wrong, it’s just a little kinky, a little nasty. 

No, what’s wrong is the intensity we put into it, the blazing emotions I can feel scorching a trail through my soul. Doesn’t he realize it? 

He kisses me deep, so deep, his body moving over mine, imperceptibly rocking against me. This is too serious. Way too serious. 

That’s not how you kiss your fuck buddy. That’s how you kiss the love of your life, the other half of your soul.

I mewl helplessly into the kiss as parts of me that should be too wrung out to care twitch and swell and rear up, and soon everything is ready to go again. And I know he’s getting off on this too: his cock is swiftly achieving a state of hardness that is nothing short of heroic given the circumstances. 

I’m sure this is all going to backfire on us at some point, but I can’t stop it. 

He helps me get rid of the condom and replace it with a new one. There’s no way in Hell we should be able to go at it again, barely minutes after we’ve just fucked each other blind, but it definitely looks like our bodies are intent on accomplishing the impossible – or die trying.

I sit up with him in my lap and my tongue down his throat, and he moans approvingly, the vibration of it coursing deliciously down to my balls. Then I tip him back onto the other end of the couch and he goes down with a laughing gasp. This weird couch is making things obscenely easy, too – the change of position is unexpectedly simple to achieve. 

When I lean over him, I realize the pose he assumes for me couldn’t spell his desire any clearer and it wrenches a strangled sound out of me. My only regret is that I can’t see how eagerly he pulls his knees to his chest and bares his hole for me. I can still touch, however. And I do. 

My hands slide over him and discover that his opening is offered to me, spread wide. He gasps softly as my fingers brush over it. Again, I have to relearn him through touch only and it’s amazing. The damp, creased skin of his balls, the coarseness of his fine hair, the tender vulnerability of his cock. The inviting heat of his flesh just _there_ where the tips of my fingers are poised. 

I trace the rim lazily then just dip inside – he’s still hot and somewhat slick, and I marvel at the thick, rich texture of him. A cool drizzle of lube is poured along my fingers, and I push two fingers in, then three. He soon groans his impatience, though, so with my left hand I carefully guide myself to his opening and roll my hips – and my cock slides effortlessly inside him, where it joins my fingers. We both whimper with need when I push them along my length and around my girth, adding their stimulation to the onslaught of sensations. 

After a minute of this tactile exploration, he whispers my name. A sweet, vulnerable sound that tears through me and plants an ache in my chest that makes me speechless. So I lean forward and his thighs wrap around me until I lie in his arms and start fucking him as slowly and as flawlessly as I can. 

I kiss and nuzzle his throat, feeling every deep, fevered breath he takes as if it was my own. And I take him long and careful and unhurried because we are both tired and we can hardly believe we’re still so aroused. 

It’s slow and lazy and unending, but he’s eventually back to full, aching hardness against my stomach and his gasps grow more demanding. His hand comes to cup my cheek and he breathes a dirty, broken, “Give it to me, Jack.”

And so I do. I use every ounce of strength left in me and give him everything he wants, everything he needs to come again. I can feel beads of sweat dampening my blindfold and rolling down my back as I thrust into him, regularly stroking his sweet spot until it surrenders the hard-won but massive jolt of pleasure. His hands suddenly claw at the back of my neck and he arches into me and makes a pained, keening sound as his body quivers deep and hard around me. 

So good, he feels so good. I want to tell him. 

I want to tell him how good he feels, how perfect. 

How I love him. 

How I _love_ him. I barely manage to stop the stupid words from spilling out of me as the quiet climax washes me away. 

I fall and fall and fall for what feels like an eternity. 

And when I come back to my senses, he’s caught me in his arms and his embrace is loose and easy, and his fingers are lightly playing in my hair. My dead weight must be crushing him, but he doesn’t complain. He even retains me when I try to shift.

“No rush,” he says gently. I feel him wriggle and get comfortable on the backless couch. “You know, I never saw the point in this piece of furniture, but now I get it.” His smiling voice is slightly slurred with pleasure and I realize I could really get used to this.

“You considering buying one for your place?” I mumble conversationally against his chest.

There’s a brief awkward pause and it’s like I can actually feel his body flinch under me.

“Jack,” he begins warily. “This _is_ my place.”

I lift my head to look in the general direction of his face. “Say what?” There’s a weird uneasy feeling twisting my guts.

“I live here.”

I push the blindfold off my eyes, and I’m suddenly face to face with a rumpled, nicely-fucked but very cagey Daniel. 

“It’s a hotel,” I answer stupidly, trying to blink away the white spots in my bluish field of vision. “You can’t be living in a hotel.” 

Admittedly, my cognitive skills are not at their finest right now, but surely he has a house, or a manor, or something equally ridiculous and grand because that’s what all the rich and powerful have. Hell, he probably has half a dozen of them. He doesn’t need to live in a hotel.

“I can and I do,” he assures me quietly. “I’ve been living in the penthouse of this hotel for 17 years.” 

Seventeen _years_?! The shock rings through me and I abruptly feel the need to disentangle myself from him and try to sit up. I need to see him and think clearly because what he’s saying is too outrageous.

“Christ, why would you do that?” I’m vaguely aware that this is none of my business and that my rude flapping and blurting is unwarranted, not to mention irrelevant considering we’ve just screwed each other stupid... But I don’t get it. Why would anyone want to live in a fucking hotel – however nice and stylish – for so long? It smacks of sleaziness, of immaturity, of… I dunno, of fear of commitments, of carelessness. And none of these dubious qualities are things I associate with him, so why the eternal bachelor pad?

“Because it’s my hotel and I like it here.” His voice is quiet but his tone is clipped, daring me to find anything wrong with his choice of accommodation. He slowly draws himself to sit on the edge of the couch, forearms propped on his knees, and looks at his knitted fingers.

“When you say ‘your’ hotel, you mean…?”

“I own this hotel,” he nods. 

“Right.” Of course he does. 

Of course he fucking does. He owns the fucking place, the secretive prick.

“Do you have a problem with that?” he asks challengingly, turning to look at me with eyes that have lost their warmth.

“Nope, not at all,” I gripe. 

And yeah, maybe I’m being pointlessly argumentative and childish when I should be quietly enjoying the extended afterglow of an amazing couple of orgasms, but instead I feel like I’ve been played again. Why the lies? Why didn’t he tell me we were meeting on his home turf all this time? He could have told me a long time ago. But instead, he pretended the rooms were reserved and that he was being discreet when the whole staff in the building – his own fucking _employees_ , for fuck’s sake – were perfectly aware I was thoroughly screwing their boss. Not a random guest – their _boss_. But of course, I wasn’t worth being given such basic information, was I? Just hired meat.

“Everything is peachy,” I add bitterly. 

“Good.” The answer is cool and crisp. He gets up, looking unduly handsome and dignified in spite of the splash of come drying on his stomach. “I’m taking a shower.”

I take in the cold blue gaze, the pinched lips and the regal frown, and realize Daniel has gone and the Ice King is back.

Fuck.

I watch the fine ass walk out of the room.

Christ, what was he thinking? Hooking up with a prostitute in his own hotel. On his own fucking doorstep. 

I sigh and rub a hand over my face. What is wrong with this guy? Where does he get all this shit?

Sweat is drying on my body, making me shiver. Making me feel foolish and lonely.

I huff and consider my options. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. This is not a strictly-business relationship anymore, and whereas Jack the Whore would have been contracted to stay until the time was up, Jack the Fuck Buddy can do whatever he pleases. 

For want of anything better to do I get up, roll my neck and stretch my limbs gingerly. Get rid of the condoms. Summarily wipe myself down with the black silky scarf. My head swims a little and I try not to think about what’s just happened. We have _not_ just had a ridiculous argument thirty seconds after sex. That would be too goddamn pathetic for words.

Night is falling outside and the city is lazily coming alive with artificial lights, but the penthouse remains in semi-darkness. I look around and check the apartment once again – I guess the awkward decorations on the walls make some sort of sense now.

At a loss for something to do, I pull my jeans and t-shirt back on. 

I don’t want to leave, but I get the feeling I probably should. We’ve kissed and fucked and come – repeatedly – and I think that means we can consider the evening a success. Mission accomplished: we got our rocks off.

The rest will have to be filed under collateral damage.

I reach for my jacket and hear something fall to the floor. I crouch to pick it up: it’s the envelope containing the black key card and the PIN code.

The key to this place.

The key to _his_ place.

My heart lurches in my chest at the realization: he gave me the key to his home.

Aaaand I feel like an utter bastard now.

I follow the sound of running water through the extensive apartment and knock on what is presumably the bathroom door.

No response, but I enter regardless.

“Daniel?” 

I ignore the way my body reacts to his soaking wet body. 

He hits the faucet to kill the water with an annoyed huff. “What now?”

“I’m… uh, just wanted to say I’m gonna take off.” It’s the coward’s way out, I know that. Sure, I’ve kind of acted like a jerk over something completely ridiculous, but that’s only half the reason for my inglorious escape. It doesn’t matter how much I want to spend the night with him, sleep in his bed, and wake up in his arms. The truth is, I’m forced to leave because I simply don’t know how to stay. 

He looks at me for a second. Wipes a hand over his face and hair to get rid of the excess water. “Suit yourself,” he shrugs.

I can see the droplets clinging to his eyelashes and the way his dusky nipples tighten under my gaze.

“Listen, I’m sorry for what I said,” I manage. “I didn’t mean… It’s just that… we don’t know each other very well and sometimes it feels like you’re keeping some pretty basic information from me.”

“I’m not _keeping_ information from you,” he promises seriously.

“I know. That’s just how it feels to me at times.” All the time. I don’t know the fucking first thing about him. “Ex-military,” I explain, pointing at my chest. “Intel is important to us.”

“I didn’t think knowing where I lived was important,” he argues, his voice low and quiet as he exits the cubicle and grabs a towel. 

“It’s not that… I just… I would’ve liked to know our appointments were in fact house calls, let’s put it that way.”

A cold expression steals over his features and a cynical eyebrow is raised. “Affected the rate, did it?”

“Don’t start with me: you know I don’t give a shit about the money,” I bristle instantly, a mirthless smile at the ready. Is this his way of getting even? I take the few last steps to reach him and stand in his space. “I’m just telling you why I overreacted. I’m not here to play mind-fucking games.”

“What are you here for then, Jack?” he asks in a carefully neutral tone, his ice blue eyes pinning me to the spot as he rubs the towel over his neck and down his chest.

Good question. What am I here for?

“I’m here to apologize,” I huff, slightly deflated. “And to say thanks. For the black pass. You didn’t need to do that.” And I didn’t need to lose it like I did. God, I am so not wired for handling a relationship. Not even a fuck-buddy relationship.

“I thought it would be more convenient for you to just come up here without going through the front desk every time.” His words are low and measured, with a subtle but distinctive ‘don’t read anything into it’ kinda vibe.

“Okay.”

I don’t know what to do with myself, now. I don’t know if my outburst is forgiven, I don’t know if I have anything left to be sorry for, I have no idea if the balance of affection has been restored, and Daniel’s summarily drying his stomach and flanks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself either. 

Boy, do we suck at this.

So I do the only thing we can never seem to get wrong. I lean in, cup his cheek and drop a soft, closed-mouth kiss on his lips.

“We okay?” I ask him.

He blinks once and licks his lips. “Yes.”

I can’t help the pathetic sigh of relief that steals out of me as I wrap my arm around his waist and feel every inch of his damp body through my clothes.

“Okay. Before I leave, is there anything I should know about you that you haven’t told me yet? Like, do you have a wife or kids? An evil twin? A portrait that grows old instead of you? Do you secretly fight crime in the streets at night and have a butler named Alfred?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up and his eyes crinkle.

“I’m 36. I suffer from allergies and astigmatism. The only remaining family I have is a grandfather who got himself institutionalized. I don’t sleep much, and I occasionally enjoy listening to Rammstein,” he rattles off randomly. “That enough intel for you, Colonel?” 

Uh-huh.

“Okay. I can deal with a wheezy, possibly demented, Rammstein-loving insomniac,” I assure him confidently. 

Then I kiss him – a real kiss this time. My tongue sliding and twisting along his in a slow and achingly sensual dance, and his arms finally come around me as he responds in kind. 

This is what we’re good at. We should really limit ourselves to this and never try to communicate any other way.

I eventually end the kiss, though. God knows I don’t want to, but I have to. This is getting too intense again – give it another minute and I’ll end up doing him on the edge of the sink and we can’t do that. It’s just not reasonable or grown up. We can’t spend every minute of our time together rutting like animals. 

Can we?

“I should go,” I rasp, my eyes presumably saying pretty much the contrary. “Same time, next week?” 

“Same time, next week,” he nods, looking alluringly fucked.

I leave before I drop to my knees to do something about the desperately rigid cock he’s now trying to hide behind the towel.

Come to think of it, it’s not so much that I don’t know how to stay, it’s that I don’t know when or how to stop – so it’s preferable to beat a retreat while I still can. 

‘Delayed gratification is good,’ I keep repeating to myself as I punch the ground-floor button on the elevator. Delayed gratification is my friend.

I bang my head repeatedly on the doors on the ride down to knock some sense into my lust-addled brain.

Forget about teaching him fuck buddy etiquette. 

I need to get my hands on a copy of “Gay Relationships for Dummies” ASAP.

 

***End of Chapter 10***


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